I am proud—no, fucking proud—of Shannon, Emma, and Audrey.
Flesh of my flesh. Bone of my bone.
These three women are the very best thing that ever happened to me. Period. End of story.
When I look at each of them, I feel something that stretches far beyond words. A deep ache. A sacred swell. A private roar of gratitude that rattles around in my chest.
I see them for who they are—today, as full-grown, radiant, self-sufficient women. But I also see echoes of their younger selves. Their baby skin. Their awkward stages. Their teenage fire and fight. I hear their voices at age four and age fourteen, overlaid on the one I hear today.
The mind does that.
It connects the dots.
It overlays timelines.
It blends what was with what is.
And it tells you, This matters. This is love.
Photography Isn’t That Different
I’m proud—no, fucking proud—of my photography too. And I don’t say that lightly.
Not proud in the chest-puffed, look-what-I-did kind of way. I’m talking about a deeper pride. A seasoned, scarred, earned pride. The kind that comes after 14 years of showing up, again and again, with nothing but an iPhone in my hand and a stubborn belief that the moment in front of me was worth noticing.
And I’ve got the receipts.
Over a million photos. Ten iPhone models. Fifty countries. Countless moments, stitched together by light and will.
Some of these images were taken in joy. Some in sorrow. Some in awe. Some in boredom. But all of them—every single one—are a record of being there. A way of saying, I lived this.
When I look back on my body of work, I don’t just see pixels. I see people. I see days. I see choices. I see effort. I see emotion. I see me.
Then and Now
The photos I took a decade ago aren’t the same as the photos I take today—not just in quality, but in voice. They carry the same fingerprint, yes, but they speak differently now. They’ve matured alongside me.
Some of those early shots were scrappy, hungry, eager to prove something. And I love them for that. That hustle had heart.
But now? I shoot with a different kind of confidence. A quiet assurance. I don’t chase the shot. I wait for it to rise. I know what’s worth capturing. I know what I feel when I feel it.
Looking back, I’m proud of what my photography was when I first captured it. But I’m even prouder of what it is now—what it’s become in the years since.
Time has a way of editing us. Softening the harsh. Sharpening the essential.
So when I say I’m proud of my work, I mean the whole damn arc. The raw beginnings. The slow unfolding. The learning. The letting go. The finding of a voice that was always mine—but buried under a thousand bad habits and false starts.
A Life’s Work in Light
My photos are not just a portfolio. They’re a life’s work. They’re visual proof that I’ve been paying attention.
That I saw beauty in things that others passed by. That I stopped. That I framed. That I clicked.
They remind me that I wasn’t numb. That I didn’t sleepwalk through this life. That I tried, in my own imperfect way, to bear witness to the world.
Photography saved me. And shaped me. It taught me how to look. How to wait. How to listen. How to feel.
That’s what makes me proud.
Not that I nailed a composition or cracked the algorithm.
But that I kept showing up—with eyes open and heart in hand.
Bloodline and Timeline
There’s something that feels strangely poetic about it all—my daughters and my photographs.
Both are living extensions of me.
Both carry pieces of my soul.
Both will outlive me.
When I’m gone, the world won’t remember every word I said. But it might remember how I saw.
And it will remember the three women who carry my blood—and everything I ever hoped to be.
This is legacy. Not in the grand, boastful sense. But in the quiet, everyday way of being present. Of capturing. Of loving fully.
Seeing Them Clearly
You never really stop being a parent.
Even when they’re grown. Even when they move across the country. Even when they have careers, apartments, spouses, and lives of their own.
They’re still your babies.
And you still see them through a lens that mixes then and now. Memory and miracle. Fragility and force.
The way I look at Emma’s eyes. Audrey’s laugh. Shannon’s wisdom. It’s the same way I look at a favorite photo—like I’m staring at something far too big to fit into a single frame. But I try anyway. Because it’s worth it.
A Note to Myself (and Maybe to You)
There’s a moment, every now and then, when I sit quietly, phone in hand, scrolling through my Camera Roll, and I think:
You did good, Jack.
Not perfect. Not famous. Not always on time. But good. Honest. Present.
And if there’s one thing I hope others take away from my life or my work, it’s this:
Notice.
Notice the light.
Notice the people you love.
Notice the moments that ache with meaning.
Notice the ordinary things that turn extraordinary the second you really see them.
Because one day, the only thing left will be the love you gave and the images you made.
And if you’re lucky, they’ll both be good enough to make someone proud.
Proud of them.
Proud of it.
Proud of me.
Click
Jack
